Of all our feelings the only one which really doesn't belong to us is hope. Hope belongs to life, it's life itself defending itself. Etcetera.

What good is a writer if he can't destroy literature? And us... what good are we if we don't help as much as we can in that destruction?

Come sleep with me: We won't make Love,Love will make us.

You're like a witness. You're the one who goes to the museum and looks at the paintings. I mean the paintings are there and you're in the museum too, near and far away at the same time. I'm a painting. Rocamadour is a painting. Etienne is a painting, this room is a painting. You think that you're in the room but you're not. You're looking at the room, you're not in the room.

Literature is ... a game, but it's a game one can put one's life into.

Of all our feelings the only one which really doesn't belong to us is hope. Hope belongs to life, it's life itself defending itself. Etcetera.

All profound distraction opens certain doors. You have to allow yourself to be distracted when you are unable to concentrate.